


Barely Covered

by WritingQuill



Series: Prompts et al [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humour, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sherlock's experiments, Smut, Speedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>On a relatively slow Tuesday morning, John decided to take a shower mostly because he was bored</i>... little does he know what Sherlock has prepared for him that day.</p><p>Prompt fill for <a href="http://moriartyismrsex.tumblr.com/">moriartyismrsex</a> on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barely Covered

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for [moriartyismrsex](http://moriartyismrsex.tumblr.com/) who asked: "could you write something where Sherlock tricks John into doing something ridiculous (like modeling underwear) 'for science', but eventually John figures out that it isn't actually for an experiment...?" 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this :D (I might have taken a few liberties with the prompt, oops)

On a relatively slow Tuesday morning, John decided to take a shower mostly because he was bored. Usually he wouldn’t shower so early in the day if he wasn’t going out, but it was raining outside, Sherlock was focused on an undisclosed experiment therefore not speaking, and John had the week off from the surgery. So he put his warm flannel dressing gown on top of his pyjamas and walked to the bathroom downstairs. 

It was a quick shower, unfortunately. Not much to wash, really. He stepped out fifteen minutes later, still bored, only slightly more wet. 

John sighed when he realised he’d forgotten to bring down clothes to change into, but then shrugged and simply threw the dressing gown on his naked body, and walked out. As he walked by the kitchen, he noticed that Sherlock wasn’t poking through his experiment anymore. Actually, he was nowhere to be seen. 

‘Hm,’ John mumbled to himself, taking the opportunity to make some tea now that the kitchen was free of Consulting Detectives. Just as the kettle went off and John poured the water in his mug, Sherlock walked in, still in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, a sort of mischievous look to him. John raised an eyebrow. ‘What happened?’ he asked. Sherlock had the decency to look confused. 

‘Nothing, why do you ask?’ 

‘You’ve got the “I Did Something” look,’ John told him, then fished the teabag out of the mug to throw it out, before pouring a dash of milk. Sherlock sniffed. 

‘Nonsense, you are seeing things, John. Perhaps it’s all that tea you drink.’ 

‘Have you been putting things in the sugar again?’ John asked him with a smirk, making Sherlock blush slightly. ‘So have you got any plans for the day?’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Yes. Actually, I need your help with an experiment.’ 

John groaned. That always meant something embarrassing for him. If only he’d stayed in bed. ‘What is it?’ 

‘Don’t make that face, a man’s freedom depends on this experiment, John. In fact, I believe we should begin at once,’ Sherlock took the mug from John’s hand, suddenly very excited and alert, and began pushing him out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. John went because he always went where Sherlock told him to go, but he was still confused. 

‘Is that for a case? Did Lestrade call?’ 

‘For science, John!’ Sherlock exclaimed. The door of John’s bedroom was open, which was just another red herring, since he’d closed it after he left for his shower. John sighed.

They walked in and John noticed that the bedroom had been unchanged, nothing had been touched and it really just looked as it usually did. Except for his bed. 

There, on his bed, was a small pile of Speedos. Different colours and patterns, but all had one thing in common: they were briefs, the small kinds, the kinds that only old men and little boys wore for the beach. 

If Sherlock hadn’t been blocking the door, John would have bolted, dressing gown only and all. As it was, John stared from the garments on the bed to Sherlock, gobsmacked. 

‘Sherlock…’ 

‘It’s great that you are already naked, John, because I need to see how the different levels of moisture affect the fabric and fit of the Speedos,’ Sherlock explained. 

John, doing a perfect imitation of a goldfish, could only continued to stare. For about two minutes he stared, and stared and stared, until Sherlock cleared his throat, and John snapped out of his minor system failure. He looked up at Sherlock and raised both eyebrows. 

‘ _You_ want _me_ to try on _these_ for you,’ he stated, and Sherlock simply hummed. ‘Right. Okay, well. no?’ 

At that, Sherlock seemed shocked. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to parade around the flat in fucking _Speedos_ just for an experiment, Sherlock! That’s insane!’ 

* 

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was sitting on his chair in the living room, waiting patiently for John to come out of the bathroom wearing the first pair of Speedos. He was still wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, naked toes tapping agains the floorboards, nervously waiting for John to come out. His fingers twitched on the arms of his leather chair, the information input coming from the flat was not enough distraction. All he could think about was John, in the bathroom, putting on the garments he had picked out. 

Sherlock would be the first to admit that this was a gamble, he had never truly expected it to work. He didn’t even want to _seduce_ John with this, just look at him, marvel at the understated, compact beauty of those broad shoulders too-often hidden by baggy jumpers, and those powerful thighs, always straining against his jeans as he ran along with Sherlock after a criminal in the small hours of the morning. Sherlock had dreams about those thighs, about those thighs wrapped around his neck as he sucked on— 

‘Just to let you know, I am not okay with this,’ John said from the corridor, snapping Sherlock back into reality. He cleared his throat and adjusted the fit of bis pyjama bottoms, covering himself a bit with the dressing gown. 

‘Yes, I am aware, John,’ Sherlock said, trying his hardest to keep his voice cool and collected. ‘Now come out, this experiment is of utmost importance!’ 

When John stepped out, padding along the floorboards a bit awkwardly, Sherlock all but stopped breathing. 

John looked… marvellous. His skin was golden against the dark walls behind him, the starburst scar on his shoulder like a flower blossoming in an immaculate meadow. The hair on his chest was scarce and fair, almost feathery, and Sherlock wanted to touch it, so bad, especially the tiny ones around his perky pink nipples, which stood, pebbled in the cold. 

Looking downwards, Sherlock watched the Speedo closely. John had chosen a red pair first. They were bright red briefs, which framed his crotch area to near perfection, emphasising and downplaying John’s size beautifully. He was so well-enveloped by the soft fabric of the briefs that it looked like candy, and Sherlock wanted to lick it. However, he simply gulped, took a surreptitious look at those amazingly powerful, lovely thighs, and nodded, then looked back at John’s face. And frowned. 

‘What?’ he asked, noticing the amused look John was giving him. His flatmate simply shrugged. 

‘Oh nothing, just wondering what was next in the experiment.’  
‘Yes, well, I need to observed the, hm, different…’ 

‘Levels of moisture, yes. So, I should… get them wet?’ John asked, making Sherlock choke on his own saliva for a second before getting himself together. 

‘Hm, yes, that would be, yes, good.’ With a smirk, John walked back into the bathroom, supposedly to… _wet_ the red Speedos.

It took John another three point eight minutes to come out again, in which time Sherlock managed to calm himself down, opening mental images of Mycroft eating cake, his mother’s horrendous Christmas turkey in 1991, and Anderson’s horrid beard. Of course, all those images went flying out as soon as he saw John. Except this time, the red Speedos were wet, clingy, and ever-so-slightly… transparent. 

Sherlock felt heat around the area of his pyjamas his had covered by the dressing gown, and suddenly his neck felt very hot as well. John’s smirk was obvious now, and it was clear he thought he knew something. Or perhaps he did know it, in which case this was going to turn very embarrassing very soon. 

‘Is that good enough for you?’ asked John, completely confident about… something, as he walked towards Sherlock in those tight wet Speedos, the droplets of water trickling down his legs, making their merry way across the planes of his thighs, across a dusting of curly blond hair, leaving a wet trail on its wake. It was mesmerising, hypnotising, and soon it was too close, far too close, and Sherlock had to look up because he hadn’t realised John had stopped right in front of him. John’s thorax was aligned with Sherlock’s nose, and his flaming red, wet crotch was so close, Sherlock could almost feel the heat coming from it. He grew harder just being so close to it. _Damn_. 

‘Sherlock,’ John said, and Sherlock looked up to see his face. John had a warm smile on his lips, his eyes were shining. God, he looked beautiful. Sherlock sighed. This experiment had gone to hell, hadn’t it? Ruined by his own libido. _Damn_! ‘Sherlock, stop.’ 

‘Stop what?’ 

‘Stop thinking,’ and with that, John brought his hand to Sherlock’s nape and pulled him closer, their lips meeting midway, hot and wet and toothy and perfect. John’s breath was hot in Sherlock’s mouth, their lips moving together, biting, sucking, and then tongues. Probing tongues, exploring their ways into each other’s mouths, feelings lips and teeth, meeting slowly, entwining with such familiarity, like they’re been doing this forever. And then John was straddling Sherlock’s hips, his hot wet red crotch pressing against Sherlock’s tented pyjamas, and the friction was enough to bring out loud groans from their throats. 

John moved, slowly, sensually, teasing. Sherlock moaned, and pulled John closer, and pressed his hands under those red Speedos, those _damned_ red Speedos that were too much _on the way_ , and cupped John’s perfect bum with both hands. He pulled and pushed, and they pulled and pushed together. It was like an ill-rehearsed dance, making it up as they went, and it was glorious. Feverish and slow and fast and glorious.

The friction was too much, it was too much and it was not enough. He needed out of these clothes, and he needed John out of those _damned_ Speedos. 

‘John, I—‘ 

‘We need to move,’ John said into his lips, climbed out of Sherlock’s hips and pulled him up. ‘Your bedroom. Now.’ 

They shed their clothes on the way. First Sherlock’s dressing gown, then his T-shirt and his pyjamas, which were in deep need of a wash given by the state of the insides. Then finally, _finally_ , Sherlock took those Speedos in hand, and pushed them down, slowly, painfully slowly, and he moved John to lean agains the wall next to the door to his bedroom. John’s cock sprung out, free at last, majestically like it belonged on display. It was flushed and dark and wet, and so, so beautiful. Sherlock’s mouth watered, so he leant over and licked it. John’s deep, loud moan made him do it again. He could listen to that sound forever. He wanted to record it and have it as his ringtone. John’s beautiful moan, slightly whimper-y, slightly desperate, lust-filled — gorgeous. 

And Sherlock sucked. He sucked and kissed, tasting John and swallowing as he went. It was addictive. Especially with John writhing and moaning under his ministrations. Sherlock could do this forever and never get tired of it, just kneel and nibble on John, kiss him, suck on him, swallow him until he gagged. Yes, perfect. A deep, deep suck, and John was almost gone. A tug on his testicles earned Sherlock a trembling “yes!”, and running one long finger across John’s perineum got him the most gorgeous scream, and John held onto his hair for dear life, moaning aloud now, breathing heavily, the smell and taste of him occupying all of Sherlock’s senses. 

Finally, with one last suck, John came undone with a hasty warning, but Sherlock took it all in. He tasted bittersweet, and the texture was thick and moist. Sherlock swallowed like it was water, like he was a thirsty man, and John was an Oasis of salvation. 

John took a few deep breaths to gather himself together, then pulled Sherlock up for a sweaty, messy kiss. No more words were said as John dragged Sherlock to the bedroom. 

* 

Right outside Sherlock’s door, the pair of red Speedos laid on the floor, abandoned, over a small puddle. It wouldn’t be picked up again until fourteen hours later, when John walked out to grab a glass of water and a slice of toast, completely spent, and almost slipped on it. Then he would smile widely and set it to dry. John would never wear something like that to the beach or the pool, but there was nothing wrong with keeping a few of these around in case Sherlock needed to run a few experiments…

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The title was my friend Sarah's idea, so cheers, love! 
> 
> Should probably remind you again that I do take prompts, all you have to do is go to my [askbox](http://writingquill.tumblr.com/ask), and drop me an ask! If it's within my capabilities, I will get it done for you as soon as I can :) 
> 
> Also, please leave a comment to let me know what you think, it's really helpful to get feedback!
> 
> Cheers x


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